


Watson's Christmas Recitation

by laideur



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: A Christmas Carol, Christmas, Dickens, Victorian, you get fruit for christmas because it is the 1880s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-13 18:11:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12989676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laideur/pseuds/laideur
Summary: The residents of 221 Baker Street do Christmas for the Irregulars





	Watson's Christmas Recitation

**Author's Note:**

> written for holmesianholidays.tumblr.com

“I was a boy at the time, but I’ll never forget it! It was a great honour, hearing the man himself. I’ll try to do him justice for your boys. And you say you haven’t read it, either?”

.

The idea was Watson’s alone. I loved him for it instantly. It was just the sort of thing he would think of—so simple and obvious and good—the sort of thing that would never have occurred to me.

We agonized for ages over who should suggest it to Mrs. Hudson. She was never fond of having my little Irregulars in her house. They tracked the filth of the street onto the carpets and left grubby fingerprints on the doors and furniture, and more than once a spoon had almost been lost to their quick hands. We knew we needed some artful maneuvering to obtain her blessing. She was more amenable to Watson—as everyone was—but I knew he was too fine a gentleman to do anything but capitulate if she denied him. I, on the other hand, always did as I liked with little regard for anyone else, but if it came to asking outright permission, and giving her that power, she might tell me off for the sheer novelty of being able to do so. In the end, I approached our landlady on Watson’s behalf.

“She was about ready to have you canonized as a saint,” I later said to Watson. “You should have seen how she clasped her hands over her breast and exclaimed,” here I imitated her exactly, ‘“Oh, what a kind soul the Doctor is! So generous! So caring! Of course I would be more than happy to have the wee ‘uns in for an evening.’ She even said that, since she already has some funds laid aside for Christmas dinner, the boys can have buns and oranges, and maybe even mincemeat pies if there is enough time to make them.”

“That’s a splendid idea!” said Watson. “Of course I can give her extra money for the effort.”

“You needn’t bother, “ I said, ever silently aware, in those early days, of how far Watson’s finances could reasonably stretch. “I will chip in, too. You keep at your editing.”

“Ah, the editing. You know, it’s his own self-editing I’m trying to replicate. There’s much more in the story than I remember him reading to us. It’s just not practical to read the whole thing aloud, and he trimmed it down nicely. I hope I can get it right.”

“I know the boys will love it,” I said, with conviction.

.

On the afternoon of Christmas Eve, just as the sun was going down, a dozen small, dirty boys tumbled into the downstairs sitting room at 221 Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson was there at the door to welcome them with a tray of buns, as promised. I stood silently aside, like a scarecrow, watching their merriment. They were dressed in a colorful array of cast-off clothing in all manner of styles and sizes. Men’s waistcoats peeked out the bottoms of their coats. Their unkempt heads were covered in shapeless hats or wrapped with scarves. On their feet were mismatched too-big shoes and unraveling socks.

I thought to myself how these children have never had a new thing in their lives. Hardly have they had a clean thing. I saw more than one bun slipped into a pocket, to make a meal for another day or to be shared with another child. Watson had given me a lesson about the author, how he had spent his childhood in the workhouses and risen from poverty. I begged him to stop, for it was putting me into a black mood.

“But doesn’t it fill you with hope?” he said. “It is inspiring.”

“Perhaps I am irrationally predisposed to melancholy thoughts, but I cannot help but be reminded of how few do make it out of the workhouses. And what, after all, is the alternative? Can they truly be better off on the street?”

.

The children sat on the floor with their treats. The fire burned cheerily. Watson took up his place in a big armchair, with the book poised on his knee. It was all extremely domestic, like a Christmas card, just the sort of environment that I had no place in. I lingered in the doorway. Mrs. Hudson passed me on her way back to the kitchen.

“Mr. Holmes, aren’t you going to listen to the story?”

“I can hear it from here.”

“What nonsense,” she chided. “Go and sit down with the other boys. Here’s an orange for you.”

I took the orange and sat down quietly on the sofa, like a good child. One of the youngest lads peered up from my feet. His enormous coat made him appear even smaller than he actually was. His arms were lost in the sleeves, one tiny hand visible, clutching half an orange.

“Is it a good story, Mr. Holmes?”

“Very good, Sammy. Would you like to sit up here with me?”

“Yes.” The child climbed up on the seat and affectionately rested his head against my arm.

“I like stories,” he said.

“Dr. Watson writes stories, you know. He writes stories about me.”

“Is this one a story about you, sir?”

“No, it isn’t. But you can hear one of those some other time.”

“I’d like that. I’m sure the stories about you are very good, too.”

.

_“There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate.”_

.

Watson is a very good story-teller. Even if it’s not a story he wrote, he inhabits it so thoroughly he can make you believe it is his own. I credit myself as a skillful actor, but he could give me a run for my money if he weren’t so self-conscious about it. Maybe the problem is that I have only seen him try to act when we were in the midst of an investigation, and it isn’t the acting that trips him up so much as the deception.

I could see the pride in his eyes when the children—who were very well behaved—laughed when he did the silly voices. They were appropriately frightened by the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, and they were delighted by the description of the feast at the end. I must admit that several times I was, myself, swept away by the story.

Afterwards, Mrs. Hudson packed them off, with all the food they could carry, into the foggy evening. Watson was still seated in the armchair, contemplating a job well done.

“My dear fellow, that was an excellent performance,” I said. “They’ll not soon forget it.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“And perhaps they can share it with their families at home and give them some joy. A story is a good gift. But it does make me think that I should be more charitable. We have such a lot here. I try to give them errands when I can, but every day I see more and more children who-”

“Holmes, stop.” He stood up. I realized I had been pacing about, wringing my hands. He came up to me and took my hands in his own. “I did not think the story would affect you so. You cannot compare yourself to Scrooge, of all people.”

“Why not?” I barked at him, performing my role as an irascible old curmudgeon. 

“You’re the most generous person I know. You’d do more for a perfect stranger than the average man would do for his brother. Now let us go upstairs and have dinner, and be grateful for a warm fire, and for each other’s company.”

I smiled, not at his words, but at the care he put into them. “Yes, let’s.”

“And if you _really_ are feeling charitable, then perhaps you can tidy up some of those stacks of newspaper you have lying around. It’s getting out of hand. I think mice have begun living in them.”


End file.
